Sunday, January 30, 2011

Nails (3.4)


Fragments of light do acrobatics across the surface of her Revlon red acrylics.

Clack clack clackclackclackclack clack. 

The pale meat of her fingers reddens at her dry knuckles and the back of her hand is sprinkled with sun spots. A pale gold wedding band cinches the pink flesh of her right ring finger. She has what her mother used to refer to as potato-pickin’ hands. 

Clackclackclackclack Clackclackclack. 

She pounds against her keyboard. The click of acrylic against the plastic keys has always seemed professional to her. In the next room the ancient fax machine creaks out a letter. The dull whisper of shuffling papers rises from the adjacent cubicle. 

Clack clack clack.

She’s had the acrylics since she was 22 and read in a magazine that they visually lengthened fingers. Every other Tuesday evening at 7:00 she has a standing appointment at the salon with Tammy, who she doesn’t like but who is admittedly the best beautician in Reno. 

Clackclackclackclack clackclack clack.

The soft electronic chiming of the front desk phone floats across the room. Someone somewhere is using a stapler. The hard clicking of her typing keeps the beat of this interoffice symphony. 

Clackclackclack clackclack clackclackclack clackclack.

She pauses, rolls the sleeves of her brown turtleneck up, pushes the creaking roller chair away from her laminate desktop and stands up. She has to check something with Trudy at the front desk.

….

In the next cubicle over he silently thanks God for the relief, however small and temporary, from that hellish clacking.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Darkness (3.3)

In those first moments after her mother turns off the light the darkness pulsates and shifts. The room is re-conforming itself. The floor shifts and creaks. As her pupils dilate, she can see the hallway light slowly leak under the door and into her room. Underneath the whirring click of the ceiling fan throbs an expectant silence. The girl presses her body into the cool cotton of her sheets, willing them to swallow her deep into the heart of her mattress. The stillness rushes in her ears. She is waiting for them to move. A sound from beneath her dresser cracks open the silence and floods the room. A wave of adrenaline crashes against the inside of her skull. She jerks up and waits, taught and motionless under the droning of the fan. It was as if someone had tossed a plastic bottle cap against the wall. A small pop of sound. From underneath the dresser. Or perhaps it was the sound of a knuckle striking the wooden underbelly of the bottom drawer. Her mother had insisted, repeatedly, that the noises were just old pipes in an old house but the sharp thud, whatever it had been, was not metallic. Although the mechanical whine of the ceiling fan always made it difficult to know for sure. More silence. As the minutes tick away the dimensions and textures of the sound slip from her mind. She can’t remember how loud it had been or whether it had been a knock or creak. She eases herself back down to the cool face of her bed and loses control of her thoughts as she slips into near sleep. Another hard rap erupts from the dresser and she is violently awake.

FREE DAY 2

Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Most Flexible Word in the English Language (3.2)

So you like, like like him?

Yeah, and… I don’t know… I think he likes likes me too. Like the other day he came up to me at lunch and was like that’s a really cute skirt.

I have to meet this guy. What’s he like? Is he preppy-ish?

Not really. Just like a normal guy…. I guess. But you’ll meet him this Saturday. He’s just so sweet, y’know? He’s always texting me and calling me and he always “Likes” my status updates on Facebook.

Oh my god that’s adorable. Ok, so… random, but I hate the new profile page.

I know. No one likes it. I don’t know why they keep changing it when literally no one wants them to. Like at all.

Yeah it’s dumb.

Ugh…. I still have like 4 hours of math homework to do.

I know. Fucking kill me. It’s like he doesn’t understand that we have other classes.

Really. And sitting in that class is like being tortured. No I mean... like... it has to be against some international law or something.

But honestly, seriously, calculus should be illegal. I thought I finally understood, like really understood, derivatives and then yesterday he says, “Now we’re doing partial derivatives”. And I’m like “Really, really? Is there seriously more of this shit?”.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Fragments (3.1)

I fucking know right? I just watched vol. 3-I hated it at first but really grew to like the new characters. Effys in it and shes the shit. Going to watch mtv skins after new jersey shore. Cant imagine ill stick with it-from the previews, it looks identical to uk skins-but totally deadpan and w.o all the cool british sayings…ronnie totally just put sammy in her place the stupid ho.

Im watching season 3 as we text. Yeah the characters are starting to grow on me. I wish I were effy. She is a badass. Yeah the MTV one looks awfull but I’ll give it a chance… Maybe like 2 episodes? The new jersey shore episode is great. Trashy as always. And I fucking hate Sammy and love seeing her get alienated.

Ooh what episode are u at? I liked it starting w. Thomas but episode 4 aka mdma brownies is when i was rly ok w. It. Freddie is sooooooooo attractive. I love seeing sammys crying face after rons like fuck u…aaahh human suffering….

***
But seriously what’s up?

Just uh… uh… atempto de aprender toda la lengua de español en este momento para mañana y va a estar bueno. Donde no puede hablar con migo. Y si mi español es malo no puede decir nada. Nada. Ok , I’m done. Nada.

***

Ok so yeah what you’re saying is that it’s only less riskier because people don’t fly as much as they drive. What I’m saying though is that, that I think even if people were in airplanes as much as they drove then even still it would be safer to fly. Because pilots are trained professionals. Like no one is drunk driving a plane.

***

Are you commenting on the gay boys?

At least my guy isn’t cradling other guys.

Yeah they’re gay.

Quote 3

These fragments I have shored against my ruins
- T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Goals

I love to write but am often intimidated by a blank page or a new word document. My goal in this class is to learn to sit down and start writing, without spending half an hour staring at a blinking cursor and another half an hour writing and rewriting the first sentence. I also look forward to having dozens of fragments that could potentially be turned into longer pieces.

Mexico (2.4)

When Americans pronounce the word Mexico, the x catches violently in their throat. They cut the word in half with a rock hard k and then extend the final o to its breaking point. Americans vacation in Mek-si-cooh. Mexicans live in México, where x sounds like a soft gust of wind and o is a short sigh. The throaty flow of the word is clipped gracefully by the final clean syllable. The Spanish word is a whisper, a shout, a prayer. The English word, hard and sharp, is an outburst that sounds more German than anything else.

México is a dream, beautiful and terrifying, that flits between scenes of magic realism and surreal nightmares. It is a country that breathes, that palpitates, that rages, a country that walks the rough edge between its past and future. It is a land that exists outside of time, outside of any concept of structure or order, suspended between legend and reality. The word itself is a hoarse scream and husky sigh, at once a declaration and a confession that hints at all the beautiful contradictions of the country itself.

Mek-si-cooh houses maquiladoras, drug cartels, and spring break vacation spots. Mek-si-cooh is what used to be stamped into the underside of the toys in McDonald’s Happy Meals before China. Mek-si-cooh produces nothing but cheap televisions and illegal immigrants. It is a country whose only significance is its proximity to the United States, a land without imagination or mystery or intrigue. The word is a broken jumble of hard syllables, mispronounced and misunderstood.  Mek-si-cooh is an afterthought.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Premiere Video (2.3)

 Tucked into a strip mall in the industrial wasteland surrounding Dallas, the largest video rental library in Texas looks out onto the black tar of its parking lot. The blinking neon letters that spell out Premiere Video are written in a font reminiscent of an 80s arcade game. The brilliant halogen lights lining the ceiling inside shine through the dusty glass storefront and into the darkened street, surrounding the store with an electric halo. Behind its tired door, Premiere holds everything from Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou to MTV’s Jackass: The Movie. The never-ending shelves of DVDs and VHSs climb all the way up the 15 foot walls to the gray ceiling. The films I carried out of that store were my sacred texts: Sunset Boulevard, Network, Bonnie and Clyde, Sex, Lies and Videotape. I was working my way through the celluloid gospel, through A Streetcar Named Desire and the Deer Hunter, through Blue Velvet and The Royal Tenenbaums. I remember the brief and violent revelation I had after I saw old fragments of pop culture reborn, baptized in a new light by Tarantino in Pulp Fiction. I remember being on the verge of tears when I was struck by the desperate beauty of Jake LaMotta’s black and white ballet in Raging Bull. When I witnessed Brando read The Hollow Men in Apocalypse now, every syllable echoing in the hollowness of his soul, I was prostrate before true greatness. These moments of weakness, of awe, of faith were my religion. And Premiere, with its laminate shelves and dull carpeting, was my cinematic temple.

FREE DAY 1

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Jungle (2.2)


My eye followed the canyon walls upwards to a jagged and remote crack of pale blue sky. We were lodged deep within the earth, where time had slowly unwound. The green waters of the river slid languidly through the canyon and the air felt like wet velvet in my lungs. The stuttering purr of the motor boat and the strident voices of the sun-burnt tourists, disappeared, were absorbed into the unfathomable depths of the primeval walls. Canopies billowed outwards, thick and round, like the clouds of an atomic bomb captured in a photograph.

We roared past the incomprehensible stillness, wanderers through a prehistoric jungle. The dark, twisted trees leaned into the river, their boughs heavy and full. The dense, wet canopy waited, poised above us in thick rolling waves, ready to blot us out. I stared with awe and the forbidding depths of the jungle gazed back with mute indifference.

As the boat continued to slice through the river, I saw a small field carved into the mountain side. It cut into the wilderness with precision. As I looked further down I saw great pale swathes slashed into the canyon edge. The wilderness disintegrated into subdued farmland. The river swelled upwards toward the canyon rim as deep greens faded into dusty pastels. The river slid around a corner and opened onto an enormous pool of green water. Strung across the horizon was the cement wall of a hydroelectric dam. A string of floating barrels bisected the pool and dozens of thick cables sliced across the pallid blue sky. Mounted floodlights shot upwards, segmenting the sloping skyline of the distant mountains. Piercing the horizon was an enormous grey statue of four laborers looking down at the whole expanse of the land (the river, the cliffs, the rolling jungle) with hunger.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Quote 2

The natural role of 20th century man is anxiety.
 - Norman Mailer, The Naked and the Dead

Standardized (2.1)

She likes to think of things as if they were connected, as if the ultimate outcome were controllable, simply a sum of the requisite steps. The bright halogen light dances across the packet of cellophane in front of her. Two number two pencils border the top of the desk. A good grade on this exam means getting into a good school, which means choice summer internships, which mean a prestigious job at a prestigious firm, which means something. She slides a red hair band over the unruly wisps of her hair and tightens her pony tail. Empty droning from the front of the gymnasium outlines the simple instructions. Her way of thinking, the built up pressure of all those future moments, is the only thing preventing her from leaving. Her future is like an anchor that she drags around to keep her from floating away. The buzzing of the lights invades her skull. She looks out at the rows students, some bored, some terrified, each mechanically slogging through, as if the goal were to mass produce filled-out scantrons. The booklet lies unopened in front of her. She feels on the verge of weakness and thinks of a fragment of a poem she once read about those “who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons”. Pushing her nails deep into the flesh of her right arm, she tells herself that this type of thinking will ruin her. She breaks the paper sealing the test and begins.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Film and Fantasy (1.4)


Top Grossing Films by Year (filmsite.org/boxoffice2.html) 

2000: How the Grinch Stole Christmas
2001: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
2002: Spider Man
2003: The Lord of The Rings: The Return of the King
2004: Shrek 2
2005: Star Wars: Episode III- Revenge of the Sith
2006: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest
2007: Spider Man 3
2008: The Dark Knight
2009: Avatar

Three superhero sagas, two green men and not a single original film. The American people demand sequels, threequels, remakes and reimaginings. Even Avatar is nothing more than a remix: part Pocahontas, part Dances with Wolves, all special effects vehicle. We want familiar fantasies with easily identifiable good guys and bad guys, with caped crusaders and loveable sidekicks, with magic and spaceships and pirates. We want 3D goddammit. Because reality is depressing. Because in 2000 we had widespread suspicions of electoral fraud in Florida. Because 2001 the towers fell and we rushed into Afghanistan. Because in 2003 we “liberated” Iraq and the Space Shuttle Columbia crashed into the earth. Because in 2005 the levies broke. Because in 2007 Wall Street voodoo brought the economy to a grinding halt. Because in 2008 a young man at Virginia Tech woke up one morning and shot his classmates. Because every time we flick past the morning news we are faced with these stories. These incomprehensible stories. And every morning I wish for some sort of clear cut answer, for a Voldemort, a Darth Vader, a Grinch. I pray for a cackling maniac dressed in a black cape that I, that we can point to and say, there, that’s him, that’s the bad guy.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Mom (1.3)

7:00- The alarm clock goes off.
7:17- She turns the heat down to medium low and scrapes the eggs into the center of the skillet.
7:32- The family eats.
7:43- She kisses her husband goodbye.
7:54- She buttons her son’s parka and straightens her daughter’s skirt.
8:05- They walk down the two blocks to the bus stop. She is cold.
8:07- The bus arrives and she kisses each of her children softly on the cheek.
9:15- She adds a half cup of laundry detergent to the machine and twists the dial.
9:18- Pouring a can of cream of mushroom soup in, she stirs the tuna casserole.
9:59- She separates another load of whites from the crumpled clothes in the hamper.
1:01- After preheating the oven to 450˚, she slips the final casserole in.
1:14- She washes all the remaining dishes.
1:17- The dryer goes off and she puts in the final load.
2:32- She enters her pin number at the ATM on the corner of Hillcrest and Milton.
2:43- She lets the dog out.
2:44- She puts the last casserole into the freezer.
2:47- She looks through the family photo album and pulls out a picture.
2:48- She slides the photograph of the family at the park into her coat pocket. They’re all smiling.
2:50- Twisting open a tube of lipstick, she puckers her lips.
2:52- She grabs the suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs.
2:57- She lets the dog back in.
3:15- She slides her suitcase into the luggage rack above her seat.
3:20- The bus leaves.
3:37- The children get home.

Twelve Weeks (1.5)

The tight pink bundle has “12weeks©2005HH76,Inc.” stamped into the smooth rubber of its back. The tiny whorls of its ears frame the bulbous contours of its face; it has the pinched fragile features of a new born. Already a thin layer of rubber has started peeling of its right cheek and the loose flakes curl at the edges. This soft little thing is a rubber life-sized replica of a 12 week fetus. The gentle muted pink of the rubber looks so naked, so frail. It was given to her to hand to women outside the Planned Parenthood. It’s so small.  Unable to make eye contact with the other protesters, the girl studies the delicate nude contours of its fingers and the gentle slope of its narrow shoulders. She squeezes its bulging head between her thumb and forefinger, watching its features stretch and swell. Suddenly, she feels overwhelming tenderness for this little rubber baby. It can’t be more than 2 inches tall.

Slipping it back into her coat pocket with the others, she wonders where a person would buy a rubber fetus. Did they come in bulk?  She can faintly hear the group leader instruct them to hand them out to anyone walking in or out of the clinic. How much was it? She dips her hand into her pocket and fishes one of the fetuses out again. The large bulb of its nose seems grotesque. Was it made in China? The thin nude slits of its eyes stare back at her. She imagines a protester pressing it into the palm of a devastated girl and can’t look anymore.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

The Teenage Hangout (1.2)

Someone had tacked a thin cotton blanket to the ceiling. It featured a pulsating geometric star, a tangle of concentric angles that reminded her of the tiling in mosques.  The room itself, which was papered in psychedelic posters of mushrooms, Jimmy Hendrix, and indescribable swirls of bright 70s colors, seemed to be some director’s conception of a teenage hangout. It was a carefully designed set pulsing with spacey electronic music. There was something sinister about it all: the blanket, the posters, the high school students. This was a scene in some unknown mediocre film where cardboard puppets murmured lines from a dead script. These stiff marionettes were conspiring to recreate a half forgotten moment from a half forgotten film. And she was incapable of acting. She was trapped in this television set.

It was time to stop smoking; the panic had begun to seep between the vertebrae in her spine. She closed her eyes, once, twice, and rolled her head, heavy with damp thoughts, toward the ceiling. There was the blanket, sagging in the middle, pulling the room down with it like a collapsing tent. Sharp red and blue diamonds radiated outward from a purple center, tempered with smooth golden knots that fed into one another seamlessly and endlessly. The blanket was a carefully studied imitator of Persian designs. The tightly knit geometric pattern, the deep vivid colors, were all thoughtfully selected and composed to recall the luxury of a Persian rug. But it wasn’t. The thin, wrinkled cotton and clumsy, generic design betrayed it. It was an imitation of an imitation of an imitation. It was fitting.

Quote 1

She was the victim of truly heroic doubts.
 - Lawrence Durrell, Justine

The Fourth Shelf (1.1)

To the left of the fireplace, the khaki slabs of a built in bookshelf bite deep into the white wall. The fourth shelf is a lost and found pantry: a confusing array of brightly colored packages and forgotten items. A large can of Stop and Shop Old Fashioned Oats dominates the shelf-scape; its deep red label shining in the soft glow of winter light. Facing forward to display a bright bowl of Microwaveable, 100% Natural oats, the can sits at the exact center of the crowded shelf. To its left the French Style Green Beans and Seedless Red Raspberry Jam huddle against an un-opened package of Lipton Iced Tea, glinting respectfully at the Oats’ side. These intimidated cans face inward, displaying their neatly printed black and white Nutrition Facts. The Iced Tea with Natural Goodness anchors the left end of the shelf, resting comfortably against the painted wood. Behind the bright yellow box of Lipton sits a plastic cup of plastic cutlery, dusty and forgotten. To the right of the Oats three orange packages of Maruchan Ramen violently reflect shards of the dying light. The packages’ crumpled dramatic plastic jut against the Oats’ 18oz cylinder, asserting themselves. The right end of the shelf is marked by an upright package of Thin Spaghetti, a forgettable blue and white box of Enriched Macaroni Product. Sandwiched between the aggressive Ramen and the anemic Spaghetti is the bulb of a fake flower, its soft cloth petals crumpled. The yellowing white of the faux-daisy is lost amongst the vivid grocery-store colors, label-less and brand-less.